A Love Letter to my Childhood Dog

I’ve been silently grieving the passing of my childhood dog for the past couple of days. My parents had to put her to sleep Wednesday morning. She was just at my apartment Tuesday. Only this time, she was struggling to breathe, struggling to go to the bathroom, and having seizures on and off. It was hard to watch. I could see her slowly making her way out. No one wanted to admit that it was her time, but we collectively knew that she was nearing the end.

Losing Cookie isn’t only hard because she’s a dog, and because dogs generally don’t deserve to die. What makes it tragic is that she was a symbol of my childhood, and now that she’s gone, it feels like a piece of my childhood died along with her. We adopted her when I was around 9 years old, when she was just a puppy and starting her new life. We grew up together. We celebrated every birthday and milestone, we decorated her with bows and bandanas; we talked to her and played with her any chance we could. We truly saw her as another member of our family. Truthfully it’s hard to remember a time in my life where she wasn’t our dog. We had a dog before her, Sadie. She was a beautiful classic beagle. She bit me pretty bad when I was 7 or 8 and unfortunately we had to part with her. It was hard but not like this, seeing as we simply gave her to another family. Her life wasn’t over, just restarting.

As a puppy, Cookie was tiny but fluffy. She was white but had big spots of black and beige all over her body. That’s how we ended up with her name: Chocolate chip cookie dough. Cookie for short. As she grew older she shed her puppy fur and was mainly just white with some faint beige, and I always thought she kind of grew into a snickerdoodle.

When we first drove up to take her home, I was excited to finally have another dog. When I met her, I was actually pretty scared of her. She was jumpy and hyper and still teething. I was scared to hold her or even get near her for that matter. But soon enough I was putting her in my doll stroller and wheeling her around the house like she was my baby. And that she was. I would stuff her in my bags and carry her around on my shoulder with her head peaking out. We’d dress her up in little outfits and take lots of pictures of her. All my friends would come over and we’d all play with her, and she was always so excited to make new friends. Between my friends, my brother’s friends, and my parents’ friends, in at least two different states, she had probably over 100 of them- she was pretty popular for a dog. I remember a time when I was pretty close with the kids that lived next door; our families would get together on those perfect summer evenings where the air was warm and there were fireflies everywhere and you could hear the crickets chirping. But they had a big dog and one day their big dog bit our little dog and that prompted the end of our friendship with their family- which goes to show that we really did not play about her. She was really more of a sibling than a pet.

We had 13 good years with Cookie. The day she passed I looked through all my mom’s old Facebook photos she had of Cookie, and I just sobbed as I flipped through them. I was reminded of both the memories I vividly remember and the memories I completely forgot about. It used to snow up to 3-4 feet in Pennsylvania, and we would open the front door and she would run out and dive right into the thick of the snow. She’d collect bunches of it on her fur. When we’d go up to the lake house in the Poconos, she’d swim in the lake with us. I remember her little polka dotted life vest we used to clip on her, and watching her slowly but surely get comfortable with her doggy paddle. When our house had a pool in Texas, she’d sit on the floaty and sunbathe with us. We would take her everywhere we possibly could.

Cookie was loved by many far and near and I’m devastated she’s no longer here with us. She was brave and spunky- and particularly mischievous. She loved getting into our Halloween candy and scaring us half to death because of how much chocolate she’d consume. But alas, she’d wake up the next day and act like it never happened. She loved dirty underwear (yuck) and also smelly feet (also yuck). We’d have to shave her a few times a year and I’d always make fun of her for looking like a rat. She had these huge bug eyes that depending on her haircut at the time, you’d almost think her eyes were popping out of their sockets (which actually did happen once), but she was a good dog. She knew how to sit and when to come to you, she knew her name and would respond to it often. If you asked her a question- any question- and really flick your tone at the end of the question she’d tilt her head sideways as if she’s trying to understand what you’re asking. She would be there at my feet or in my lap when I was a sick little kid watching movie after movie on the couch with the humidifier going for hours and three different types of medicine and bottles upon bottles of ginger ale and gatorade on the table in front of me.

She loved car rides- so much that you could look at her and say wanna go for a ride? and you could watch her eyes light up and her little nub of a tail start to wag furiously and she’d run to the garage door. She’d stick her head out the window and her fur is all over her face and her nose is wiggling because she’s smelling everything at 40 mph. She’d pace between the right window and left window, or sit on the console in the middle as if she were driving the car in her mind. There were certain words you couldn’t even say around her or she’d get too excited. We’d have to start spelling words out like T-R-E-A-T. She’d stand at your feet in the kitchen and grab anything you dropped on the floor. She had a clear personality. Sometimes I’d wonder if she was just a human trapped in a bichon-shih tzu’s body.

In the last couple of years, she started running into some health issues and my parents did an amazing job of taking extra good care of her. She constantly needed to take medicine for this or that, she was losing her sight, her teeth, her hearing. She was more often discouraged when it came to jumping on and off the bed or the couch. It was bittersweet getting to spend time with her on the second-to-last day of her life. My mom spent the night at my place and was planning on leaving around 12 the next day, but when morning came she got back from taking her out and knew she had to leave right away. I think we both knew she wouldn’t make it to Christmas. We sat with Cookie in between us and cried, because we knew that was the last time we’d sit on a couch with Cookie in between us. I was grateful I got a chance to say goodbye, but it was heartbreaking to no longer see her as the dog I had once known. She was like a shell of what she once was. I carried her to the car, adjusted her on her favorite blanket, gave her a kiss and walked away sobbing knowing that would be the last time I’d hold her. The next morning my mom called me and gave me the news that she took her last breath earlier that morning. I know my parents are taking this especially hard, because Cookie’s passing makes them empty nesters in a very real way now. I can’t imagine what they’re feeling. I don’t think they’ll get another dog for a while.

What brings me immense comfort is knowing we gave her the best life a dog could possibly have. As I comforted my mom, I realized how amazing Cookie’s life had been. She traveled through at least a third of the states, she’s been on planes, in cars, and on boats; she’s traversed through lakes, beaches, and forests. She’s been held and loved and petted by so many people. That is a dog’s purpose, and without a doubt in my mind, I know that she fulfilled hers. A lot of dogs never get to experience a life like that. She was a lucky dog, and we were equally as lucky to have her.

When I imagine what she’s doing now, I picture her as a black and beige spotted hyper little puppy. She’s sitting in a huge field of grass and her fur is blowing with the wind and her little nubby tail is wagging and she’s running all over and playing with her stuffed piggy I got her over a decade ago. I know she is at peace now, and I feel at peace knowing that.

Cookie Dough you were the best dog a little girl could have. Thank you for supporting me through my life journey. All the past versions of myself- including the one I am now- we love you forever. You’ll always be our girl.